Fenaerii
by Fenaerii
Summary: Fenaerii first arrived in Sentinel upon the Covenant's Pride. A member of the Mage's guild with an intrinsic talent for manipulating magicka, meets a mysterious man who changes the world beyond recognition.
1. Sentinel

A dusk fell over the damned dunes of Alik'r, home of the Redguards. Sun-scorched sands of an arid wasteland. Ancient stone carved temples, weathered by desert winds. The dunes shifted with determination, molded by some invisible hand. The twilight set the sky on fire. As the sun dipped beneath the horizon, fire turned to ash, speckled with stars. The darkness resurrected a nocturne. A nocturne that, until now, had been subdued by the scathing sunlight of day. Night.

Green eyes looked to the night sky in awe. Eyes that belonged to a young and curious Altmer. She leaned her body against the warm stone of the Sisters of the Sands Inn balcony, her chin rested on her palm, her elbows dug into the rough rock as she admired the Mage in the heavens.

The city of Sentinel was quiet. A façade of course. Sentinel was a port city, and with wealth and affluence came pickpockets, thieves, robbers, murderers, and assassins. A sad truth. Still, for the upstanding commoners who populated this elegant city, night was a respite from the glaring rays and overwhelming fever of the desert.

A cool zephyr passed through the stagnance. The Altmer's long alabaster hair swayed soft and slow, glowing amber in the torchlight. She wore a modest robe of woven spidersilk, dyed beige and brown, with leather sandals. The sleeves draped loosely over her wrists, and underneath were thin white gloves. In public she pulled her hood over her head; over her mouth and nose, she wore a black mask. But as she was alone, beneath the light of two moons, her hood lay idle.

One could easily call her silhouette beautiful. She possessed a blessed figure. But underneath her garments, her veins were cobalt, her lips were ice, her skin was snow. She had accepted her appearance years ago. She rejected the cure. She embraced Noxiphilic Sanguivoria, the ritual, the dreamlike passage, in order to be closer to the well of magicka within her. Still, she hated the pallor and the bloodshot eyes. Most of all, she despised her thirst for blood. It was a transaction, as horrible as it was. A crippled body for a stronger soul. Enveloped in darkness beneath the guardians of the heavens, her attunement to magicka grew even more powerful.

She breathed in the cold dry air. The golden light of the street lamps dotted the city swaying in the breeze. The shadows of the desert palms danced as the lanterns swung on their iron chains. She turned to the wood door and pushed. She pulled off her sandals and crawled into bed. The other guests were still lively. Drinking, dancing. They laughed and gossiped. To the clinking of silverware and glasses, the elf sank into repose.


	2. Bergama

Morning streamed through the windows of the inn. Fenaerii yawned, her arms outstretched while rays of light shined over her face. She grabbed her staves which had been placed against the wall and pulled her leather pack over her shoulder, filled with herbs, elixirs, and runes. She slipped into her sandals and descended down the stairs.

"Good morning, I'll take one loaf of bread," she said, handing seventeen coins from her purse. Her stomach growled at the sight of the chef's beef risotto, but she had no time for a proper meal. Just a simple loaf of bread would have to do. With the brisk exchange of pleasantries to Rudabeh, the innkeeper, and the creak of the wooden door, the elf was gone.

Sentinel was bustling with activity. A Breton swept the sand off the inn's steps. The guards patrolled the brick paths. The familiar clink of coins and haggling voices filled the marketplace beneath the bridge of Sentinel's Palace. Fenaerii made her way to the stables, kicking up dust and dirt with every step.

"The horses are restless," explained the stablemaster, a redguard by the name of Ennas at-Aswala. She brushed a brown paint horse with a curry comb. Its soft eyes scanned the marketplace. "Your mare was rather troubled last night. She didn't get much sleep," she motioned to the black horse in the stall to her left. The horse, named Wisp for her speed and silence, snorted and pawed incessantly. Fenaerii ran her fingers along the mare's withers, gently comforting the anxious animal. With her touch, the horse relaxed. "Her saddle is on the hook and the rest of her tack is in the chest." Fenaerii gathered the riding gear. With a fast and sure motion, she pulled the bridle over the horse's face and tightened the buckles, then threw the saddle blanket and saddle over her back. The Altmer ran her fingers through the horse's forelock and scratched her ears. "That'll be a hundred for overnight boarding," the Redguard held out her hand.

"Of course," Fenaerii placed a sack of coins into her hand, "pleasure doing business." Fenaerii climbed onto the horse, dark as coal, and with a click of her heels, trotted on.

The desert was resentful on this day. The air was filled with sand as a storm swept through Sentinel. Dry and hot. The vultures kept out of the sky, for the winds were wild. Instead, they feasted upon the carcasses of those who could not withstand the wrath of Alik'r. Tumbleweeds rolled across the barren expanse. Sand cut into her cheeks. She could barely see in front of her, but she followed the road, shielding her face behind a thin tattered map. To Bergama she would go.

It was nightfall. Fenaerii rode through the gates of Bergama thirsty. Her throat was parched. Her lungs were dry. After boarding her horse for the night, she found her way to the Stone Oasis Inn where she happened upon a rather enjoyable celebration. A beautiful Redguard woman played the lute while the people around her danced and drank. "Welcome traveler!" the innkeeper shouted, a warm drunken smile plastered across his face. His teeth shone bright against his dark skin, and his lips were glazed with liquor. "Join us!" He stood up upon a shaky wooden chair, spirits in either hand, spilling the drinks everywhere with every wave of his arms.

"Drink, Samhudah, drink" pressed the crowd. He lifted both vessels to his lips and poured the liquid down his throat and once he swallowed the last drop he threw them down to the floor with a dramatic gesture. The Redguard was beyond drunk. He stumbled off the chair and clambered onto a sofa. The other members were not much better. A bosmer lay incapacitated on the floor. Typical. They can never hold their drink.

"I don't wish to intrude," Fenaerii repositioned the pack on her back.

"Of course not," another Redguard replied whilst passing her a stein filled to the brim, "Mansour at-Ordzan," he said pressing his hand to his chest.

"Fenaerii," she replied, accepting the beverage. She pulled down her mask and brought the ale to her lips, letting the liquid trickle down her throat. "What's the occasion?" she inquired.

"Things have been happening in Alik'r, strange things. So we drink away the dread. Why be fearful when we can be joyful?" he laughed, taking another swig. "Of course, Bergama is a good city. We haven't noticed anything out of the ordinary, but rumors travel on the back of the coursers" he motioned to a veiled figure. "He's the strangest thing in the city, arrived four days ago. Said he was looking for someone," he shrugged, "then again, nobody tells anyone why they do anything. And a man like him, well he must be hiding something behind that mask."

She eyed the man. He sat silently at a table. Alone. His hood concealed his hair, and a face mask hid his mouth and nose. His deep blue eyes watched motionless, peering through the shadows. His chest barely moved as he breathed slow and steady. In his hand he held a knife, sharp and glinting orange in the candlelight. He ran his fingers against the side of the blade. Admiring it. A beautiful dagger. He flipped it with skill and precision, a presentation for a nonexistent audience. Focused. His silence was unsettling. He was waiting like some sort of predator. But his eyes were human.

Fenaerii booked a night from Samhudah's substitute, then meandered up the stairs. The alcohol had made its way into her system, and the warmth, joy, and lack of coordination finally caught up to her. She placed her staves gently against the wall and dropped her pack to the floor, before blacking out completely.


	3. Gratitude

"Try to speak and this sword will find a home inside of that pretty elven heart of yours," he broke the chilling silence, his voice a raspy whisper. His hand clamped over her mouth, muffling her moans. He fumbled with her clothes and pressed her head into the pillow. The noises she made were muffled by his palms. She tried to kick but he used his other hand and his legs to keep her still. Trapped between the disgusting excuse of a man and the fabric of a mattress, her hope dwindled. Again she tried to scream. Nothing came out of her, her sounds were stifled by his filthy hands. He fumbled with his belt, his arteries popping out of his forehead. He was aggressive and violent and she feared his next move. He smiled a cruel wicked smile before his breath escaped him. He fell on top of her. He was dead. She threw him off her.

Behind the dead man's corpse stood the recognizable silhouette of the veiled man. He cleaned the blood off the dagger and slid it into its sheath. "I'm sorry, I would've been here sooner had I seen him enter the inn. I must've rested my eyes when he arrived."His face still hidden except for his eyes.

"No, I should be thanking you," she insisted, "you stopped him before he could go any further."

He looked down at the body, blood pooling around the corpse. He snatched the criminals purse and stole his sword. "Here," he handed her the purse, "for the inconvenience." He smirked.

"Who exactly are you?" she took the coins with a metallic clink.

"A shadow, something you'll never see, something you'll never understand," he whispered with a deep, tired voice.

"Are you going to leave?"

"Would you rather I stay?"

She nodded.

He smirked. "What for?"

Fenaerii admired his features. His body was toned beneath woven fabric garments. She still wanted to see underneath his mask. She just had to get his guard down. "I want to thank you."

"You don't have to."

"What if I want to," she stood up, facing him. She pulled off her gloves. "What if I want to give you something." She bit her lip. A message clear as day.

"I don-"

She shushed him, lifting a finger to his jaw. She stroked his cheek. He leaned into her touch. With her fingers she pulled slowly on the mask. He stood there, his eyes soft, waiting for her to take it off. His lips were parted, eager to taste her. She closed her eyes and began to passionately kiss him, working her hands to his hood as she slowly pulled it off him. He didn't notice. He was too focused on dancing with her tongue. He moaned as she pulled him closer to her, her hands behind his head. When she pulled away she stared into the face of an Altmer.

"Why'd you stop?" he furrowed his brow, still slightly dazed. "That was unexpected," he smiled, "but not unwelcome."

"I-I don't know," she pulled back, "I don't know what came over me." She lied. "I must've drank too much."

He pulled up his hood and mask again. "Well if I see you again, I'll buy you a drink, or maybe not. Maybe we can both be sober and do something" he winked, "or maybe not."

"Maybe yes?"

"Only if you don't get into any more trouble."

"You'll save me again though, would you not?"

"The offer is tempting."

"Tempting, does that mean I'll see you again?"

"If not, I'll see you," and with that final whisper, he turned around and left. His footsteps echoing in the bitter silence.

Fenaerii swore she felt something about him. His voice, his eyes, his lips. Something that unlocked some lost memory from long ago. She missed his warmth. She looked down at her own pale fingers. All she felt before was cold. Numb. She laid down on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The golden candlelight her only weapon, a saber to cut away the darkness. She touched her icy lips. Still warm. A smile settled on her face. And with the thoughts of the mysterious Altmer, she went back to sleep.


	4. To the Landing

All worldly traces of the man were gone. The only remnants of him were seared into her memory. Except for one small scrap of parchment on the nightstand.

_You wanted to meet again. So I came back to help you find me. Travel to Abah's Landing and find Erthelgor. He is a trusted friend of mine. Show him this note, he will know what to do. _

_-R_

_Also, I got rid of that Nord scum for you. Sorry again._

She scanned the document over again, admiring his handwriting. She could smell his recognizable scent, subtle but full and aromatic. She could hear the faint scribbling as she imagined his fingers wrapped tightly around a quill, carefully applying the black ink knowing that it would be eagerly read in the morning. Neatly folding the note, she stashed it into her pack and instead pulled out a rolled up map. Here eyes wandered the southern peninsula of Hammerfell. Abah's Landing lay in Hew's Bane, not far by ship.

Abah's Landing was a rich port city, dominated and controlled by merchant lords. Its walls towered over the sprawling bustle of traders and sailors. Rumors spread of an underground organization of criminals based within the city, but there was no hard evidence of such, so they were dismissed as merely stories. Stories to mask the city in a veil of mystery, to give it the sparkle of a jewel deep within the scorching sand.

A sigh escaped her lips. She hesitated, touching her pale fingers to the map. Her nails scratched lightly against the paper. She rolled the map once again and slipped it into her pack, ready to descend down the stairs.

"Early morning for you!" Samhudah laughed while fumbling through his inn's logs, "enjoy your drink?"

"Very much sir, thank you," she replied with a nod, heading towards the kitchen. An orc and bosmer chatted by the blazing fire oven, and a dark elf ordered a glass of spirits.

She ate a plate of garlic corn chowder, fresh from the skillet, and chugged a bottle of fresh cold water with some level of difficulty. Her throat was still unnaturally sore. Partially from the sand that scraped the inside of her nose and mouth, and tore at the soft sensitive flesh behind her tongue and down her esophagus, and partially from the incident from the night before. The attempted screaming for help. Still, that cryptic elf was her silver lining. And that kiss they shared lingered on her lips. She nibbled lightly on her lower lip, thoughts frantic, balancing the positives and negatives of traveling to Hew's Bane. To that cesspool of illegal activity. Compared to the run in with that Nord last night, what's a little more danger? Her heart fluttered as she mounted Wisp once more, heading back to Sentinel to board the next ship to Hew's Bane.

The desert winds blew kindly. Giant beetles scurried across the sand, their iridescent carapaces glowing in the sunlight, clicking their little pincers. Snakes emerged from their burrows and lay upon exposed stones, soaking the heat into their cold blooded bodies before retreating back to their shelters. Fenaerii's hood and mask were pulled over her head and face to protect her pale skin safe from the fierce sun. Wisp's black fur charred. Her body steamed in sweat. The refreshing breeze dried her off. Fenaerii poured water down Wisp's face and quarters. They were making good time, they'd make it to Sentinel before the sun rose to its zenith.

Sentinel was as stagnant as it had been just days ago. New merchant faces arrived, old faces were lost. Still, the pattern remained the same. It changed like the tide, always the same, always expected, but it changed nonetheless.

The wood planks creaked beneath the weight of the horse. The hoofbeats tapped like the rhythm of an Argonian's ritual drum. The horseshoes clanged against the stray bits of metal embedded into the wood, stray nails from reconstructing the docks, poorly made and poorly repaired. A ship, _The Seamaiden_ had pulled in to relieve itself of its cargo. Fenaerii walked forward to speak with the captain, hoping that Hew's Bane was one of its next destinations.


End file.
